The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  Eryd nodded. ‘I understand, Helyn. I want to believe it, but I believe what I see with my own eyes, not hearsay.’

  ‘I know. As you say though, it’s too chilling not to be real. I believe it, I need no further convincing.’

  ‘About what, Mother?’ came a light voice. It was the Benchs’ daughter, Georgyana.

  ‘Were you listening?’ her father asked, anxious that his young, fanciful daughter might have heard more than he wished.

  ‘No. But I wouldn’t tell you if I had,’ she answered and pulled a face at him, but not before taking his hand and squeezing it. That father and daughter worshipped each other was obvious. Helyn sometimes wondered how they ever found room for her in their lives. ‘Did you meet our guests, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Georgyana said, shaking her golden tresses which she wore long and loose.

  ‘We have visitors downstairs,’ her father said. ‘I suppose you came in through the back like a servant?’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ his daughter pouted. ‘I wanted to see what was cooking.’

  ‘Well, come and meet them,’ Helyn said, glad of Georgyana’s noise and distraction.

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘You’ll like them,’ she assured.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘The Duke of Felrawthy and a lovely girl called Elspyth who is from the north.’

  ‘Oh, another stuffy old man like father?’ Georgyana said, winking towards Eryd.

  ‘Far from it, my love,’ Helyn replied. ‘Crys Donal is one of the best-looking men in Morgravia, and soon to be the most eligible when word gets around of his new status.’

  ‘Ooh! What are we waiting for, Mother?’ her daughter squealed. ‘Off you go, Father. Bring me back something small and sparkly.’

  Eryd rolled his eyes with exasperation. ‘I am hoping for an audience with the King, Georgyana.’

  ‘Well, steal something from the palace for me then,’ she said and giggled as she left the chamber.

  Helyn gave her husband a searching glance. ‘My love, please —’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ he warned gently. ‘You know I will be.’

  She said nothing and left, fearful of letting herself down with tears.

  Knave was amazed at Fynch’s recovery. His surprise drew a grin from the boy. ‘Truly, I am well,’ he said, stretching. ‘I’m even hungry.’

  No headache?

  ‘All gone… for now.’

  How can this be?

  Fynch owed it to Knave to tell him more. ‘The King came.’

  The Dragon King? Again! He was here?

  The boy nodded. ‘But not in the way you think. He came to me in my dreams. I flew with him, Knave. He carried me to the Wild.’

  You were here all the time, Knave said quietly. I noticed you were restless in your sleep though. I feared it was pain… death, he admitted.

  Again the boy smiled, gently and without smugness, but there was something in it that Knave noticed. Some knowledge perhaps.

  I don’t mean to pry, Fynch, but you appear miraculously well.

  ‘I am,’ Fynch said, and laughed. He stood. ‘And I don’t need sharvan either. He healed me.’

  The King did?

  ‘Yes. He said he would restore me so I can fulfil my task.’

  Suddenly Knave could not look at him; he understood the way of things. But nothing comes without a price, am I right? he asked, sadness in his voice.

  ‘Don’t dwell on it,’ Fynch replied softly. ‘I am at peace, my friend. The King shared something with me which has made me happy. Happier than I have ever felt before.’

  And this sharing was a secret?

  He nodded.

  I understand, Fynch. I’m glad you feel so well. I hated to watch you suffer.

  ‘I know. You are a better friend than any I could wish for,’ he said, and he hugged the large dog. ‘Now,’ he continued brightly. ‘I must eat something and then we must go. I am strong now, Knave, and ready to face our enemy.’

  Knave said nothing. He had not anticipated when he first clapped eyes on the small gong boy in Stoneheart that he would lose his heart to him in friendship. He had been given a task by the Thicket but had never guessed he might come to resent the burden placed upon his shoulders.

  It was as though Fynch read his thoughts. ‘If we don’t destroy him, Knave, he will destroy the world we love and the Thicket. The magical creatures will die and the Dragon King will be exposed. We have no choice.’

  Knave did not respond but Fynch sensed the resolve in the dog and knew he had said the right words at the right time to remind his companion of their role in life.

  Eat, Knave finally said. We have a journey to finish.

  The Duke of Felrawthy was getting on famously with the unashamedly flirtatious Georgyana Bench. From the moment they touched hands and the young woman curtsied to the duke, Elspyth realised Crys might never stare at her in that sad-eyed, wistful way again.

  She was surprised how it hurt, tried to shake it off as simply feeling clingy about the person who rescued her from death, but she knew deep down it was all about her longing for love. She did not want Crys Donal — of this she was sure, for she loved only one person — but she would be lying if she did not admit to enjoying the duke’s attention.

  It was embarrassing when Lady Bench dropped in on her private thoughts. ‘Forgive my daughter, my dear. I had made an assumption that you and the duke were… well, attached.’

  Elspyth reddened and smiled awkwardly. ‘Not at all, Lady Bench.’

  ‘Oh, do call me Helyn,’ she interrupted, touching Elspyth’s arm as they sat together, withdrawn from the pair who were chatting animatedly.

  ‘Thank you, Helyn,’ Elspyth said. ‘Crys and I are great friends. I think terror and fear bring people painfully close, and we have shared much, not the least of which was learning of his family’s deaths. But our relationship is platonic, I assure you.’

  ‘You have been very strong for him, Elspyth. Don’t underestimate how he might feel.’

  Again Elspyth smiled, sadly this time. ‘He’s made that perfectly clear actually,’ she said. ‘But I love another, Helyn, and I really must make tracks soon to return to him. I’m glad, truly, that Crys and Georgyana are getting on so well. He needs a reason to smile and a woman who might enjoy him.’

  Lady Bench lifted her eyebrows. ‘I know I shouldn’t speculate so soon, but it’s true that they would make a marvellous match, and Eryd would be delighted to join our family with the Donals.’

  ‘Where is Lord Bench?’ Elspyth frowned, not really wanting to discuss a potential love match between Crys and Georgyana.

  Helyn Bench grew serious and looked away from her laughing daughter and into the soft eyes of Elspyth. ‘He’s gone to the King.’

  ‘What?’ Elspyth started to rise.

  ‘No, wait,’ Lady Bench calmed. ‘You need to understand.’

  ‘Lady Bench, he is sworn to secrecy about Wyl Thirsk!’

  ‘And that secret will be kept, my dear. Have no fear, we are not about to start broadcasting news of magic in this city.’ She shook herself, as if casting off a dire thought. ‘We only stopped burning suspected witches less than a decade ago, as you would know.’

  ‘So what will Lord Bench say to Celimus?’

  Helyn Bench’s face darkened. ‘I believe he intends to confront the King — in his wonderfully articulate and polite way — about the Donal family and no doubt Rittylworth.’ She put a hand in the air to stop Elspyth’s oncoming tirade, then noted the fear in Elspyth’s face. It reflected her own anguish, although she hoped she was disguising it well enough.

  Elspyth glanced towards Crys who was clearly entranced by the vivaciously pretty girl who had engaged him in lively conversation. She returned her gaze to Lady Bench. ‘I think his action is unwise, Helyn.’

  Her carefully chosen words sent a chill through her companion; they echoed her own anxiety that Celimus would not permit Eryd Bench to leave his court alive. She bega
n to weep, no longer able to hide her worries.

  ‘Oh, Helyn, please don’t. Can we reach him?’

  The older woman shook her head. ‘And he is adamant anyway. He would not listen to me earlier when I begged him not to do this.’

  ‘What is his reasoning?’

  ‘He believes in sovereignty, Elspyth. He desperately wants our King to act like the true Crown of Morgravia, to behave with care and compassion and to listen to wise counsel from his own lords.’

  ‘Eryd has listened to our horrific story and still believes he can change this cruel King into a compassionate ruler?’ she asked, shocked.

  ‘He believes we must follow the rules of our kingdom. Talk before action. No accusations before all information is sought and gathered. He does not intend to ruffle feathers, Elspyth. Eryd will be careful.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Elspyth said, enunciating carefully as if talking to a dimwit. She did not mean to act so; she was frightened. Petrified, in fact. She knew Crys had noticed her fraught body language when he excused himself from Georgyana and crossed the room. ‘Helyn, Eryd is in grave peril. His life is at stake. So is yours and that of your daughter. The moment he raises this topic with the King, he will flag how much we know and the King will instantly see him for the danger he has become … unintentionally.’

  Helyn was weeping again. ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘Elspyth?’ It was Crys. She told him briefly what had transpired and watched him pale. ‘He killed my father on a simple suspicion and then had the rest of my family executed just for good measure,’ Crys said. ‘Lady Helyn, forgive me, but what Lord Bench has done is virtually signing his own death warrant. We have to get you out of here. Immediately. Elspyth, do what you can — I’ll ready transport. Pack only essentials, and warm clothes. We’re going north.’

  Helyn Bench, trembling, reached towards her daughter. She seemed as if in a trance.

  Georgyana, however, began to protest. ‘This is preposterous. I have engagements and —’

  ‘Be quiet, Georgyana, and do as you’re told!’ Elspyth admonished. ‘We’re trying to save your life.’ Elspyth seemed to be the only woman thinking clearly. Suddenly the pain of her recent injuries was no longer important. Fear took it away. Fear of death and failure again and the need to flee.

  Crys tried a different tack. ‘Georgyana,’ he said, amazed at how his stomach flipped when she turned those huge eyes on him, ‘I could not live with myself if anything should happen to you.’ His expression pleaded with her to follow them without further protest.

  Clearly she saw something else in that expression, something Crys thought he had disguised. ‘Oh? Could you not, Lord Donal?’ she replied, and her smile said it all.

  Eryd Bench and his colleague sat in a small waiting chamber at the foot of Stoneheart’s war tower. He had no idea why they had been escorted here, but Chancellor Jessom emerged just as he began to privately question the reason for this curious venue.

  ‘Lord Bench, Lord Hartley, it’s good to see you on this mild eve. Are you both well?’ The visitors made all the right noises and Jessom continued. ‘My apologies to have kept you waiting. The King, as you see, is working from his war room tonight — I hope you don’t mind meeting with him here?’

  Eryd was slightly less anxious for Jessom’s warm greeting. ‘Not at all. I am grateful he could see us at such short notice.’ He looked towards Hartley who simply nodded in agreement. Lord Hartley had offered to come along as support when Eryd had confided his reservations about the truth of the slaughters at Felrawthy and Rittylworth.

  Jessom smiled benignly. It was not an expression that came easily to him, particularly in the light of the situation. Two lords asking for an audience at sudden notice, and Lord Bench at that — it all smacked of trouble. ‘Thank you, Lord Bench. As you know, his majesty has only just returned from the north. I’m sure he will be pleased to tell you more when you see him.’

  ‘I look forward to it, Jessom,’ Eryd replied. ‘I heard he was at Tenterdyn?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jessom said carefully.

  ‘And rumour has it there was a meeting of Kings at Tenterdyn.’

  The Chancellor attempted another smile. ‘No smoke without fire, Lord Bench. Perhaps you might enquire of the King for more information. I am a simple chancellor.’

  ‘Nothing simple about you, Jessom,’ Eryd said, deliberately softening his voice to avoid giving offence.

  Jessom bowed to the two lords. ‘Not long now, gentlemen.’

  He returned several minutes later. ‘Lord Bench, King Celimus will see you now, alone.’

  Eryd looked towards Hartley who stared stonily back. ‘Go ahead, Eryd. You speak for all of us,’ he said cryptically.

  ‘This is unusual. We are both here for an audience with his majesty,’ Eryd tried, but the thin Chancellor shrugged.

  ‘My apologies, Lord Bench, this is what the King requests.’

  Eryd nodded. Too late now. He would just have to be especially careful with the slippery sovereign, with no one else present.

  ‘Will you wait?’ he asked Hartley, who nodded. ‘Thank you, Chancellor,’ he said, gesturing for Jessom to lead the way. At least with Lord Hartley in attendance, he had someone to vouch for him even if not to bear actual witness to his meeting with the King.

  He followed Jessom, filled with intensifying trepidation as his wife’s cautions rang in his ears. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all. Perhaps Hartley was not the right choice. He was an unmarried man; his only son dead of the fever some years back.

  Which had been precisely the King’s thinking when he heard of the arrival of the two lords. ‘Separate them and take Hartley down to the dungeon,’ he had ordered.

  ‘But, sire,’ Jessom had said, startled, ‘could we not wait and see what it is they wish to discuss with you?’

  ‘We know what they’re here about, Chancellor!’ the King had said, voice rising. ‘They’re here because they don’t believe that the noble family of Felrawthy was slaughtered by Razor warriors. They suspect this because word has got around that I was meeting with the Barbarian King. It’s not hard to follow their thought patterns, Jessom.’

  ‘No, sire. But the dungeon is a fairly radical step for someone of Lord Hartley’s status.’

  ‘So is death, Chancellor. Be careful I don’t ask you to kill him for me.’

  At which point Jessom had kept his thoughts to himself. Experience told him it was the same old argument which he would never win. Expecting the King of Morgravia to show restraint, respect or even the most simple of courtesies was a waste of energy. He was a power unto himself, not caring for any advice. In fact, Jessom, if he was truthful with himself, was well past the point of believing there was a prosperous future to be shaped under Celimus. His personal dreams of becoming a kingmaker had been cracked by Rittylworth’s shame, shattered by Felrawthy’s calamity and, he suspected, were now well on the way to dust for he did not expect to see Lord Eryd Bench live out this night. Not if Bench was here to question the King’s actions and motives, no matter how elegantly couched those accusations might be.

  The fragile treaty with Cailech would also be broken soon enough, Jessom suspected, and was saddened by it. King Cailech had shown tremendous courage and foresight in his actions and the Chancellor rather admired his man, Farrow, for brokering the meeting. Bringing Ylena Thirsk to Celimus had been the mercenary’s trump card under intense pressure but still he had shown himself to possess a cool head within the eye of a storm. All these men could be valuable to Morgravia and yet Celimus was systematically destroying any chances of loyalty. How much longer would the nobility put up with his ways? Not long, Jessom suspected, and he was not about to be the King’s scapegoat.

  Their only chance, in truth, was Queen Valentyna. This marriage presented opportunities and not just in deflecting attention away from Celimus’s ugly deeds since he had taken the throne. Valentyna was bringing something positive and shiny bright into the lives of Morgravians.r />
  A dazzling Queen crowned during the pomp and ceremony of a formal wedding was their new hope. Her beauty and composure, not to mention her personal power and wealth, was the sparkle that had long been missing in Pearlis — not forgetting the promise of heirs. Valentyna was the ideal diversion from all the death and destruction. It would not go away of course, but it would be put aside for a while — perhaps long enough to lose some of its potency, by which time Valentyna of Briavel would have worked her own magic simply through her presence. With the people’s hearts won, no one — not even the lords — would want to upset the balance of the two realms with hard questions. Sleeping dogs would be left to lie, as they say, Jessom thought, as he guided Lord Bench up the tower stairs. He could hear the old man puffing behind him.

  His mind turned again to Valentyna, and something bright and sharp, like the first ray of sunlight that slices through the dark sky at dawn, cut through his thoughts. Perhaps his own loyalties should be aligned with the Queen. She was intelligent and wanted peace and prosperity for her nation; this meant she was open to advice and still young enough to be malleable. Perhaps it was Valentyna he should dedicate himself to; he could be not a kingmaker but an empire-maker.

  Jessom arrived at the King’s chamber feeling far more light-hearted than when he began the climb. He looked behind him.

  ‘All right, Lord Bench?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man wheezed. ‘I had forgotten the tower was so tall.’

  ‘It is deceptive,’ Jessom answered, and tapped on the door.

  ‘Come!’ the King called.

  Jessom swung open the heavy timber door and announced the visitor.

  ‘Eryd,’ Celimus said, beaming from behind the desk. ‘I imagine you are familiar with this chamber, eh?’

  The voice was so friendly that Lord Bench felt himself relax momentarily. ‘Yes, my lord. Your father spent much time here briefing us in years gone.’